


Restraining Order

by orphan_account



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Begging, Belts, D/s headcanon, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Love, M/M, Married Couple, Phone Sex, Sub Greg House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 08:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21424945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: 18+ ONLY. DO NOT READ OR INTERACT WITH MY CONTENT IF YOU'RE UNDER 18.Wilson is away at a conference, and House hasn't been returning his calls.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 132





	Restraining Order

_“Hey House, it's me. You're probably still at work, but I thought I'd call in case. I'm so bored. I'm supposed to go get dinner with... you remember Hayder, right? The one with the visible nose hairs. I don't feel like it, but I said I would and I'd just feel guilty... you're rolling your eyes... anyway, I miss you. I'll call later.”_

House smiles, then stops when he realises he's grinning at a fucking answering machine. Four more messages to go.

_“Hey, me again. I'm guessing you're still at work. Hayder's doing good, but there's only so many times I can look at pictures of his kids and say they're cute before it feels false. Call me when you get this. Miss you.”_

“Just tell him his kids are ugly as sin,” House murmurs aloud, as he skips to the next message. “Then he'll stop. God, you have no people skills.”

“_House, it's me. Sorry to call again, just... your cellphone's off. I'm sure you're just busy, but call me when you get this, okay?”_

House reaches for his cellphone in his pocket. He flips it open to see that it's completely dead. Oops. Well, that's earned at least a minute of nagging about making sure he's contactable in case of an emergency. Isn't that the kind of crap you're supposed to get from wives, not husbands? 

_“Sorry to clog up the phone with messages, just... it's almost midnight now and I'm kinda worried. Please call me, House.”_

House's smile fades. It is late, going on 1am. It's a little unusual for him to only be getting home at this time, but not unheard of. It's easier to decide that Wilson left his brain at the conference, because really, who else worries this much about unreturned calls? Easier to think that he's being irrational, than to acknowledge the little pang of guilt he feels at the uncertainty in Wilson's voice.

The final message begins with a sigh. _“House, please call me back. I can't sleep until I know you're okay. I called the hospital. They, err, they said you just left. Let me know you got back safe, okay? I love you.”_

Wilson has made the leap from worried to whining. Only he has such a talent for saying “I love you” whilst simultaneously managing to sound so annoyed.

House is scowling now, as he fumbles through the clutter by the machine for the number Wilson left for him, scrawled onto a post-it note somewhere. Locating it, he snatches up the cordless phone and makes his way over to the couch, throwing his leg up on the coffee table.

“Hello?” Wilson answers after two rings. The greeting sounds more like a plea.

House can't help but soften a little at the sound of his voice. Still, he makes a display of clicking his tongue as he says, “jeez, Jimmy, if we weren't married this would probably warrant a restraining order. Did you think I was dead?”

Despite the miles between them, House can feel Wilson deflate with relief as if he were sitting on the couch next to him. “Given your track record,” he replies, with an irritation as feigned as House's, “can you honestly call that an unfair assumption?”

House snorts. “What, my track record of being dead? You're thinking of a different guy.”

“No, I'm thinking of _my_ guy, who routinely does things that could cause him to die.” He hears a thump, a jerk; telltale sounds of Wilson flopping down onto the bed at his end like a hormonal teenage girl. “Just charge your damn cellphone, okay? I was worried. You need to be contactable...”

“In case of an emergency, in case of a forest fire, in case I die, got it. Though if I am dead, a cellphone is really gonna be no use. You didn't think this through, did you?”

Wilson is silent a moment. Then, “shut up.”

“That's what I thought.” He smooths over the guilt at making Wilson worry with a victorious smile to himself as he reclines against the couch and asks, “how dull is the conference?”

“Oh, no. No deflecting.”

Wilson's tone has changed. It's not the voice he uses when he's genuinely mad, the one that's usually accompanied by a disbelieving laugh, perhaps a slight hike in volume until he feels guilty and reigns it in. No, it's the voice that creates a gentle stir in House's pants, his body reacting just before his mind catches on.

_Oh._

House shifts his hips a little where he sits. “I'm getting the belt, aren't I?”

The low, breathy laugh that echoes down the receiver causes him to press the phone harder against his ear, as if he could absorb Wilson through it. “Silly boy. How am I supposed to take my belt off to you from several states over? I could make you wait for your punishment until I get home, or I could turn you into a whimpering, begging mess right now. I know which one I'd prefer.”

House coughs, trying to conceal the longing sigh that escapes from his throat; trying to play it cool. “The second one?”

“Caught your attention now, didn't I?” A rustle at the other end of the line; a ragged exhale. “Listening to me now, huh?”

House licks his lips. “Are you touching yourself?”

“Yes,” comes the grunt in response. “I am.”

House's hand tingles with longing, as he wishes he was the one wrapping his fingers around Wilson's cock; wishes he was sinking to his knees to take him into his mouth, bobbing and sucking until his lover tugs on his hair and explodes in his throat. He can't hold back his moan this time at the thought, as he reaches between his legs and palms the forming bulge through his pants. Can't hold back the pleading murmur that spills from his lips: “Wilson.”

The wicked grin on his lover's lips is palpable in his voice as he says, “get your hands away from your cock. There'll be no pleasure for inconsiderate little sluts who don't call their husbands.”

House could choke himself for the needy whine that escapes him at this statement. Wilson is in one of _those_ moods, where he's cold and merciless. His hand seems to shake with frustration as he tears it away from his groin, his blood like lava. “Wilson,” he whispers again. “Please...”

“Think about how you address me. You don't deserve to use my name.”

House's eyes flutter closed at his words; he's helpless to the acceleration of his breaths. “Sir,” he corrects himself.

“That's better.” A little grunt; the faint, but unmistakeable sounds of friction, of Wilson's hand sliding up and down his cock. “Put me on loudspeaker and sit on your hands. You want to be good for me, don't you?”

_Yes, but I also kind of want to punch you in the face,_ he almost says, as he flicks the speaker button and lays the phone down on the table. He whimpers at the friction against his cock, confined to his jeans, as he shifts his hips to slide his hands beneath him. It's incredible when Wilson denies him, dangles the promise of pleasure before him and then snatches it away just to watch him squirm. Not that he can watch him right now, but House knows he's picturing the scene back at their apartment in great detail. Knowing how much the mental image must be turning Wilson on makes him shiver with delight.

“Done, Sir,” he breathes, as his knuckles dig into his ass.

Another low chuckle. “So obedient. So willing to please me. You'd do anything, wouldn't you, darling?”

“I'd do anything, Sir,” House repeats, softly. The reminder, along with the knowledge that it's completely true, causes a curdled, burning delight in his cheeks.

A quiet moan echoes through the receiver, and House squirms where he sits. He wishes he could see Wilson's face, see his lips parted slightly, the sweat gathering at his brow, the little tremble in his thighs as pleasure courses through his body. “Very good,” he purrs. “You want to know what would really please me? You want to hear exactly what I'm picturing right now?”

Wilson's voice is driving him to insanity, low and uneven with arousal. House imagines his hands are being pinned down by Wilson instead of his own weight as he pleads, “tell me, Sir.”

Wilson pauses for a moment, or maybe he doesn't; maybe House imagines it in his desperation to hear exactly what's on his husband's mind. Still, it feels like an eternity passes before that gravelly voice comes again: “You're naked, down on your knees for me where you belong. You're wearing your collar, and I'm tugging on the ring to remind you that you're mine. You're staring up at me, and you look so wanton and beautiful and desperate that I just _have_ to..." He cuts himself off with a gasp. “You open your mouth so eagerly, just like you always do. You're a perfect little slut for me, darling. You look so good with my cock in your mouth. I love feeling your throat, all hot and wet, opening for me... love hearing you gag as I shove your head down...”

House squirms on the sofa, fighting with all his might to keep his hands trapped beneath himself. Wilson didn't say anything about not rolling over and grinding like a madman against the sofa. As long as he keeps his hands pinned somewhere... but he wants to be good, so he simply releases a pitchy, shameless cry to communicate his deprivation, his need.

Wilson moans in response. The rhythmic whisper of his hand fisting his cock increases in speed, intensity, through the speaker. “When I'm done with your mouth, I think I'll tie you up. I adore seeing you spread wide open for me, completely unable to resist while I kiss you and touch you all over. I love your body. Every single part of it. Love biting your neck, pinching your nipples, stroking your legs, while you're watching me and you're fucking _writhing_ and you're pleading for me. You want to be helpless for me, don't you, my love? Completely at my mercy...”

“Yes, Sir.” House pictures everything so clearly; feels the sheets of the bed against his bare back, grazing the skin as he squirms in his bonds. Wilson's hot breath against his throat, those teasing fingers against his balls, his hole, his body so close and yet so unreachable as his lips mumble alternate filth and praise into his willing ears. “God, I fucking need you. Need you...”

“Oh, my good boy,” Wilson pants, as House imagines him biting his lower lip, hard, nearing release. “So needy, so willing. Do you have any idea what it does to me, when you're all tied up like that? When I'm so close to you, and I can feel how much you want me? You know you have to be patient before you can have me. If you're not good for me, you'll get nothing. What do you need to do to be good for me, sweetheart?”

House can hardly stand it, restraining himself like this whilst Wilson talks him into a frenzy. His cock aches, his fingers going numb where his weight pins them to the sofa, choking on his words as he manages, “I need to beg you, Sir.”

Wilson sighs, hard, his own voice uneven as he demands, “let me hear it, then. Beg for my cock.”

House smiles, too far gone to feel even mildly stupid as he leans towards the phone and breathes, “_please_, Sir, I'm begging you. Please, fuck me, please, I need your cock, now, please...”

He trails off as he hears Wilson's deep groan ring through the receiver, followed by a series of moaning sighs. He closes his eyes, revelling in the sound of Wilson cumming for him; experiencing such bliss at the mere thought, the fantasy of having him like that. He's frustrated to the point of delirium, floating in the kind of trippy euphoria that only submitting to Wilson can provide; but there's something else. A yearning. An emptiness. Wilson's just so fucking far away. He won't be here to hold him later, to tuck him up in bed and rub his back and tell him how much he loves him.

What if he were to take off work and fly out to Ohio or Illinois or wherever the fuck he is, just to be with him until this dumb conference is over? House seriously entertains the thought for a second, until his earlier jab at Wilson about restraining orders echoes in his memory. 

_Yep. Never mind._

Wilson inhales deeply, then laughs. “Are you still sitting on your hands?”

House nods, then realises that Wilson can't see him. “Yes. By the way, I hate you.”

“I thought you probably would.” His voice is gentle again, familiar and comforting. “You can cum now.”

House scoffs. “What happened to no pleasure for inconsiderate little sluts?”

“Are you suggesting that I change my mind?”

“Don't you fucking dare.”

As Wilson laughs again, fondly this time, House fumbles his hands out from beneath him and shakes them, hard, fingers a groping mess over his button, his zipper, as he fights his jeans open. When his hand finally, _finally_, grazes his cock, the relief is like an ocean wave tackling him to the ground. He moans loudly for Wilson in between slurred murmurs of his name, as he feels the weight of his hardness in his hands; as his mind relays images of everything Wilson described, emulates the sensations of his husband's hands roaming all over his body...

“You're such a good boy,” Wilson whispers, all the time whispering softly to him, as he works himself towards release. “You're so good for me, darling, so perfect. You've pleased me. I love you so much. You always please me, so, so well behaved...”

When House finally cums, spilling all over his hand, Wilson's gentle, praising voice ensures that he trembles with pride as well as ecstasy.

He recovers, then they talk. Wilson babbles on about some experimental new drug for bladder cancer, and House is feeling generous enough to pretend to share his excitement. When House complains about Foreman getting ideas above his station, Wilson grandly lays off his usual game of devil's advocate, enough for to House to reflect on how he really must be missing him. When he glances at the clock again, he startles when he registers that it's past 3am.

Then again, that explains Wilson's sudden pointed yawns.

“Go to sleep,” House says, lifting the phone off the coffee table and switching off the loudspeaker. It's oddly comforting to have Wilson's voice echoing around the room with his, as if he were here.

Wilson sighs. “Probably should. I miss you so much, House.”

“It's been two days.” House yawns, rubbing at his eyes. They feel heavy. “Don't be so needy. It's offputting.”

“House.” He can almost hear Wilson's eyes narrowing.

He rolls his eyes. “I miss you too. Goodnight, Wilson.”

“Goodnight. I love you.”

House pauses a moment, because he struggles a bit more with that one, especially when he can't see Wilson's face. But Wilson knows, and his patience gives him the courage to mutter, “I love you too.”

He waits for Wilson to hang up. When he doesn't, House lingers, intrigued.

“Just to clarify,” he says eventually, “you're still getting the belt when I get home.”

Before House can respond, the line goes dead. He grins to himself before getting up to replace it on the cradle, hovering by the answering machine. He steals a glance around him, as if someone might be watching, before jabbing his finger on the “play” button.

_“Hey House, it's me. You're probably still at work, but I thought I'd call in case. I'm so bored. I'm supposed to go get dinner with... you remember Hayder, right?”_

He'd never tell Wilson that he doesn't erase his messages. Not until just before he gets back, anyway. When Wilson is halfway across the country actually enjoying these conferences, House likes having something of him to access whenever he wants to hear his voice. 

Then again, he'd never tell Wilson how agonising it can be sometimes to be so physically separate either. Couldn't begin to explain that having his voice on record sometimes feels easier than speaking to him live.


End file.
